


To Days Gone By

by runningoutofminutes



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, M/M, Multi, New Year's Eve, Piningjolras, amis related shenanigans, genderqueer jehan!!!!, mentions of eating disorders, not major anything but hey ho, now with neutral pronouns!!!!!, pregnancy if that's a thing you want to avoid, warnings for alcohol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-07 03:17:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1114841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runningoutofminutes/pseuds/runningoutofminutes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's New Year's Eve and that means festivities and shenanigans all round.</p><p>basically i wanted to explore the dynamics of each relationship</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Days Gone By

**Author's Note:**

> written between the hours of 9pm and 4am with no beta or common sense  
> i wanted to get a tumblr post into a fic and this blurted out

 

> _Text_ to: Courf  
>  _from: R_  
>  _[21:08]  
> _ _this party sucks_
> 
> _Text_ to: Courf  
>  _from: R_  
>  _[21:14]  
> _ _like super sucks_
> 
> _Text_ to: Courf  
>  _from: R_  
>  _[21:26]  
> _ _the fuck are you two_
> 
> _Text_ to: Courf  
>  _from: R_  
>  _[21:47]  
> _ _wait_
> 
> _Text_ to: Courf  
>  _from: R_  
>  _[21:48]  
> _ _this alcohols free right_
> 
> _Text_ to: Courf  
>  **_from: R  
> _ ** _[22:39]  
> _ _turn sout the alcols free hekc yeah_

It’s not like he’d even wanted to go to the party. Éponine had heard about it from Combeferre, who’d invited her, and she’d asked if Grantaire could go too. It would have been a nice gesture if Grantaire had known anyone other than the Amis, who were either late or busy with respective partners to worry about the dark-haired man in the corner with an increasing number of bottles on the table next to him. But honestly, who even enjoyed these things sober? A room full of middle-class, middle-aged men and women and their brats. And the group of students, who were only there as a favour to Combeferre, after his parents insisted he came. Éponine had made him buy her a new dress; even though Combeferre’s parents were the nicest people you could have hoped to meet, she still felt intimidated, and the idea of being surrounded by teenagers wearing dresses that probably cost more than her entire outfit fazed even her. So, she’d dragged ‘Ferre to a department store and had come out with something she deemed suitable for meeting his parents in, and a pair of shoes after threatening to wear her combat boots. 

Grantaire shifted uncomfortably in his suit, tugging at his shirt collar and looking around the room. He’d long since given up pretending to be interested in whatever conversation was going on, and instead was standing with Gavroche, who was busily pretending _not_ to be interested in a giggling group of girls who kept shooting glances at him. “You’re not fooling anyone,” he muttered out of the corner of his mouth as he leaned against the wall, staring over at Enjolras across the room. 

“Neither are you,” Gavroche pointed out, jabbing an _unfairly sharp_ elbow right into Grantaire’s ribs. 

“Shut up. Brat.”

“Loser.”

Grantaire swatted the boy lightly round the back of the head, then pushed off the wall. “Right, well, this has been a lovely bonding time, but it’s, like, almost eleven and I’m not nearly drunk enough. See you later. Go talk to people.” He winked and disappeared into the crowd, only looking back to see Gavroche saunter casually over to the girls, his hands shoved into his pockets.

Éponine materialised at his side just as he picked up a glass of beer, giving him a disapproving look as she leaned over to refill her glass with champagne. “C’mon, ‘Aire, it’s hardly started.”

“Yeah, and even Gavroche is talking to more people than me,” Grantaire muttered, taking a deliberate gulp of the drink in his hand. “Besides, you know how much I drink.”

“But this is a fancy party, man. No place for singing _Auld Lang Syne_ and drinking until we pass out together, not this year.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. I’d better have either a bottle of vodka or another person attached to my lips at midnight.”

“Grantaire.”

 _She looks beautiful_ , he thought absently. Her eyes were sparkling, sometimes darting over to Combeferre, and her lips were still faintly smiling, even as she reprimanded him. Her new dress clung to her, accentuating the still too-sharp lines of her body, but she wasn’t quite as painfully thin as she used to be. Combeferre had been a godsend. She still struggled with large meals, and there were days when she refused to eat, chain-smoking until Grantaire took the cigarettes away and called Jehan, because xe was the only one who knew what ‘Ponine was going through, but they were getting fewer and further between, and that could only have been her boyfriend’s influence. He was stable, in Grantaire’s opinion, more so than Montparnasse. It had been obvious that ‘Parnasse loved Éponine, but he was caught up in the wrong things, with the wrong people, and she would worry herself sick until he came home from a ‘job’. It was Grantaire and Jehan in the end, who persuaded her that it wasn’t healthy and that she needed to end it. The two of them had stayed friends, and Montparnasse had even met Combeferre to give his approval.

He snapped out of his reverie as Éponine kissed his cheek lightly, straightening his dark-green tie and making her way back to Combeferre. He watched as Combeferre smiled at her, his face lighting up with happiness. Éponine tucked herself into his body, and his arm wrapped tightly around her shoulders. He pushed a strand of her hair behind her ear and kissed her forehead, and Grantaire half-smiled, turning back to the ‘bar’ - a table of drinks with a couple of bowls of crisps on it. Tragic, but at least it was free alcohol.

He drained his glass and picked up another one, then turned back and almost bumped into another man. “Shit, I’m sorry--” he started, looking up to meet Enjolras’ eyes. “Oh. Hey.” 

“Hello.” Enjolras’ voice was strained as he glanced quickly over Grantaire, his eyes taking in the dark suit and curls, wild as if someone had been running their hands through them.

After a moment of silence, both unwilling to look away from each other, Grantaire was startled by Jehan’s arm slipping through his, xyr wrist almost half the size of Grantaire’s. “Hey, ‘Aire. Come dance with me.”

Grantaire smiled and nodded, leading Jehan over to where a couple of the more tipsy couples were dancing to something slow, and the two of them started straight into a loose approximation of a waltz, leaving Enjolras staring after them in complete disorientation. Courfeyrac clamped his hand onto Enjolras’ arm and, without waiting for a reaction, yanked him away.

“Right. We’re staging an intervention.”

“What?”

“You and Grantaire.” Courfeyrac held up a finger, stopping Enjolras’ half-formed protest, and glared at him. “No, shush, don’t talk. Everyone can see it. Except R. It would be cute if it weren’t so painful to watch.” He shoved Enjolras into a chair and perched on the table in front of him, his feet on the blonde’s thighs, daring him to complain. “Listen up. When the clock strikes midnight, you are going to make a fucking move. It’s the new year. Blame it on champagne if he rejects you, but I promise you he won’t. Swear on my life.” With that, he hopped off the table and vanished again. Enjolras stared at the couples dancing, catching the occasional glimpse of Grantaire and Jehan, spinning quickly between the other people around them. Not that that it was difficult to see Jehan. No one else was dressed quite like xem, but the tartan tights, floral shorts and yellow shirt worked on Jehan where it wouldn’t on anyone else. There had been some shocked looks when xe and Courfeyrac had come in at the start, but they were both impossible to dislike, and had soon charmed their way into the hearts of most of the women there.

Across the room, Enjolras could see Joly and Bossuet, with Musichetta sandwiched between them, her face glowing happily as she looked up at her two boys. Joly’s hand rested on her belly, almost nine months pregnant, while Bossuet pressed his face into her hair, his fingers linked with Joly’s, resting on the small of Musichetta’s back.  The three of them, again, had caused a stir when they’d first entered the room, but anyone could see that they were happy together, and that Joly and Bossuet doted on their girlfriend. No one could deny that. 

Another glance around revealed Bahorel and Feuilly, both leaning against the wall and talking to a couple of girls, Bahorel to one with long, curly red hair and Feuilly to the other, with straighter, shorter dark brown hair. _Interesting_. Enjolras smiled to himself before his gaze flickered back over to Grantaire and Jehan. Grantaire’s head was thrown back, his face lit up in a bright grin and his blue eyes shining as he spun Jehan around, xyr elbow-length green hair flying loose around xem - deep forest-green at the roots and fading to a neon at the tips, and giving the impression of strange flames.

As Enjolras watched, Courfeyrac tapped Grantaire’s elbow when he and Jehan stopped moving for a moment, and Grantaire nodded, kissing Jehan’s cheek lightly and stepping back to allow Courfeyrac to take over. Grantaire made his way over to the bar and paused for a moment, considering the selection of drinks, before picking up a glass of champagne and turning to look around the room again. Enjolras dropped his gaze back down at the floor when Grantaire’s eyes met his, feeling his cheeks burning at being caught staring. When he looked up again, Grantaire was chatting lightly to Marius and Cosette, leaving Enjolras free to people-watch again. He glanced up at the clock on the opposite wall and swallowed, feeling his stomach flip over violently at the sight of the display - 11:50pm. Ten minutes to figure out how the fuck he was going to kiss Grantaire without being punched in the face by him, Bahorel, Jehan or Éponine. He sighed and dropped his head into his hands. _Fuck_.

* * *

Grantaire had never been so happy to see Pontmercy in his life. While Marius could be a painfully awkward boy, he was more perceptive than most people expected, preferring to watch interactions rather than dive into conversations and make assumptions without knowing details. It was one of the things that had warmed Grantaire to him in the first place, when he had come into his first meeting and caught sight of the boy with red hair and freckles in the corner, his eyes darting around the room and seeming to note the relationships between each person before he spoke to them. The only thing Grantaire knew to throw Marius off was Cosette. She was the one person he became a blushing mess around to such a degree, and he was now known in their group as being the one who had walked into a door - and not even a glass door - the first time he had seen Mademoiselle Fauchelevent.

Grantaire’s eyes shifted to Cosette, whose arm was linked through Marius’ as she chattered quickly. Her deep blue eyes were brought out with tasteful but none the less effective eye makeup, and she looked effortlessly beautiful in a cream dress, her hair caught up in a ponytail. Even lanky Marius looked good in a suit that probably cost Grantaire’s apartment. That was the case, until Cosette pushed him gently towards the bar to get drinks for the pair of them, and he almost tripped over his feet, his face flaming.

There was a call for attention from one corner of the room, where a projector screen and a laptop had been set up to stream the BBC broadcast of the clock striking midnight, and Grantaire slipped one arm around Cosette’s waist, the other around Marius’, much to the boy’s chagrin, to lead the two of them to the screen, before he darted back to pick up his jacket, which he had left under the bar after the dance with Jehan.  

He dug his hip-flask out of the inside pocket of the jacket, unscrewing the lid with slightly fumbling fingers, a little the worse for wear from drinking for four hours previously, and looked around the room as he took a sip, taking in the sight of each of his friends; Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta leaning against the wall together, and he knew without needing to check that at least one of the boys would be rubbing ‘Chetta’s lower back gently, soothing the pain that was bound to come from being thirty-nine weeks pregnant with twins; Courfeyrac and Jehan, the latter having xyr hair plaited by the Irish boy behind xem, Courfeyrac barely needing to check his hands after doing the same thing for so long; Combeferre and Éponine with their arms around one another, hands linked as they swayed to music only they could hear, completely engrossed in themselves and in each other; Bahorel and Feuilly minus the girls they had been with and glaring daggers at one another, but Grantaire caught with interest how Bahorel’s eyes flickered down to Feuilly’s mouth when the redhead took a drink of beer; Gavroche sitting cross-legged on the floor with one of the girls, their little fingers linked as they stared stubbornly at the screen, and anywhere that wasn’t each other; Marius and Cosette leaning against one another and watching the seconds tick away, the blonde girl occasionally turning her head to press a soft kiss to Marius’ cheek; Enjolras--

Grantaire suddenly became aware of someone next to him, and, without turning around, glanced out of the corner of his eye to catch sight of a flash of blonde curls. He swallowed hard, his eyes snapping back to the screen as he took another long drink from the flask and tried to ignore the speeding of his heart at the fact that _Jesus Christ he could smell Enjolras’ aftershave and wow, that should be illegal_. He huffed and glared at the screen as the year ticked away slowly, and around him, people started to count down, until Cosette leaned over and kissed his cheek lightly, coaxing a small smile out of him.

_Six_

(Musichetta jerked, curling forwards and grabbing for Joly’s hand as her face scrunched up with pain)

_Five_

(Combeferre smoothed Éponine’s hair back from her face gently, smiling down at her)

_Four_

(Gavroche’s fingers linked properly with the girl’s and he swallowed nervously)

_Three_

(Courfeyrac tied off Jehan’s braid and smiled as xe turned to face him)

 _Two_  

(Marius’ hand found Cosette’s and she squeezed it lightly)

_One_

(Bahorel narrowed his eyes at Feuilly)

The clock struck, fireworks started, and the next few moments devolved into chaos.

Grantaire took another fierce gulp of vodka, wrinkling his nose at the burn and considering, vaguely, how his prediction had been right, until the flask disappeared from his hand. A warm palm cupped his face gently, thumb brushing over his cheekbone, and he stiffened as Enjolras dipped his head to press his lips to Grantaire’s. 

For a few long seconds Grantaire couldn’t move, his eyes wide with surprise, but as Enjolras pulled away, already starting to make excuses, he jolted with a flash of panic and threw his arms around the blonde’s neck, pulling him down again and catching his mouth again.

There was the sound of a smashing bottle and Grantaire’s eyes flew open long enough to take in the sight of Feuilly’s hands on Bahorel’s waist, Bahorel’s hands tight in Feuilly’s hair, curls wrapped around his fingers, glares completely forgotten in favour of a fierce kiss. Combeferre and Éponine were completely lost, her hair rumpled with one hand in it, her on tiptoes, supported by his other arm around her waist. Enjolras pulled away long enough to whisper against Grantaire’s mouth, a breathless “Happy new year” before he kissed him again, swallowing Grantaire’s reply.

The drunk singing started up, with almost universally dreadful Scottish accents, other than Feuilly's.

Despite the confusion, no one could have missed Musichetta’s sharp cry.

* * *

 

**_Textto: Les Amis_ **

**_from: Joly_ **

**_[01:37]_ **

_Triplets. Happy new year. x_


End file.
